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Hichens, Robert Smythe, 1864-1950

"Flames"

What vision had given that impulse life?
"Ah!" she said, and fell suddenly into a dense silence, touching her left
cheek mechanically with her hand, which was covered by a long, black silk
glove. She alternately pressed the fingers of it against the cheek bone
and withdrew them, as one who marks the progress of a tune, hummed or
played on some instrument. Her eyes were staring downwards upon the
carpet. The doctor watched her, and the wonder and fear grew in him.
"Have you nothing more to tell me?" he said at last.
"Eh?"
She put down her hand slowly and turned her eyes on him.
"What do you wish me to do?" he said, "I do not know yet what may--" he
checked himself and substituted, "I must go and see my friends."
"Yes, go."
She nodded her head slowly, and then she shivered as she sat in the
chair.
"Go, and do somethin'," she said. "I would--I want to--but I can't. It's
true, I suppose, what he said. I'm nearly done with, I'm spoilt. I say,
you're a doctor, aren't you? You know things? Tell me then, do, what's
the good of goin' on being able to feel--I mean to feel just like
anybody, anybody as hasn't gone down, you know--if you can't do anythin'
the same as they can, get round anybody to make 'em go right? I could
send him right, I could, as well as any girl, if feelin' 'd only do it.


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